


a good man's game

by gh0stly



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Western, Blood and Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Partners in Crime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 01:49:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17132765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gh0stly/pseuds/gh0stly
Summary: He sat next to Shane in a guilty silence, eyes downcast, feet shuffling in his worn down shoes. No, Shane couldn’t picture him as a seasoned outlaw- some dire circumstance must have forced him to rob the place. If nothing else, Shane could understand that. This was the West, and you did what you had to do.In which Ryan and Shane cross paths, and decide they're tired of running.





	a good man's game

**Author's Note:**

> I've been dying to write a Western AU since the Tombstone episode. Thanks for that brilliant excuse, Unsolved!

**_Shane_ **

 

 _I hadn’t meant to get caught up in all this,_ Shane wrote in scrawling long-hand, _I just hung out in the wrong crowd is all._

And it was technically true. Well, it was true the first time. When Shane was seventeen his friend needed money-- his mother was sick in the dead of winter, she had needed food and warmth and medicine. A perfectly good reason to rob a bank, if ever there was one, he’d thought.

But the boys were young and reckless, and of course they’d been caught red handed. Shane could still see the furious look on his mother’s face when she came to pay his bail. He’d left the jail with his tail between his legs, eyes glued to the floor as he walked past the sheriff’s desk. _Sorry, sheriff,_ he’d mumbled, _Sorry, mom._

And that was meant to be the end of it. But life changed and kept changing ‘til Shane didn’t know which way was up. He had to leave home, and he could never stop moving. He was about twenty one when he first wound up in New Mexico, with about five dollars to his name.

 _This is the last one,_ he’d thought, after the bank in Saint Denis.

 _This is the last one,_ he’d thought, after the train in Ironford.

 _This is the last one,_ he thought, now, sitting in the wagon on the way to some jail cell in Blackreach. _And this time I mean it._

He knew what his mother would say if she could see him here. That he wasn’t a kid anymore, that he should know better, that he should find a wife and honest job back in Illinois. She’d probably be right. It wasn’t as easy as that now, though. He couldn’t simply pack this all up and settle down, and find a government job in some stuffy office. He’d been doing this too long. The mere thought of staying in one home for the rest of his days made him restless and fidgety. Sorry sheriff, sorry mom, but if he had anything to do with it he’d die out here, free as a bird, than holed up in one place forever.

Shane looked up from his journal, pencil paused on the paper. The wagon they threw him in looked like an old wooden horse-trailer, re-purposed for the sake of transporting prisoners. A heavy metal lock clanked sharply against the door each time the carriage swayed. It was essentially a giant iron birdcage with a wooden roof, with no tarp cover to protect him from the freezing air. If he bent to look, he could see the driver sitting in his seat out front, the horse’s reins in his lap.

It’d be pretty hard to break the door down with a heavy lock like that. Harder still to do it without being heard, unless the driver had miraculously turned deaf in the half hour they’d been riding. Anyway, even if he _did_ get out, that driver had a pistol. Shane saw it in his holster when the lawmen first shoved him in the wagon.

That door could swing wide open right now, but he still had one big, glaring problem, and that was the guy they had shackled him to.

Apparently the guy tried to rob the cashier of some shitty corner shop and didn’t get two feet out the door before he’d gotten caught. Shane himself was half-asleep when the wagon rolled to a halt in the small town and two lawmen shoved the young man in. They’d forced him down on to the bench, though he wasn’t struggling anymore, and clamped the iron shackle to his wrist.

‘You’re chaining me up with _him_?!’ he had cried.

‘It’s a long ride to Blackreach,’ the lawman replied as he locked the wagon door shut, _‘I’m sure you two will be the best of friends by the time they hang ya.’_

The man looked in his early twenties, at a guess. Young and stupid. He sat next to Shane in a guilty silence, eyes downcast, feet shuffling in his worn down shoes. No, Shane couldn’t picture him as a seasoned outlaw- some dire circumstance must have forced him to rob the place. If nothing else, Shane could understand that. This was the West, and you did what you had to do.

One of the wheels hit a rock in the road and the young man cursed-- the hinge of the metal shackle bit in to the skin of his wrist. He reflexively pulled his fist away, tugging on their chain and causing Shane’s pencil to score across the page of his notebook. He shot the man a glare. “I can’t write with you yankin’ my wrists like that, friend.”

“What the _hell_ are you writing, at a time like this?” the man asked, more annoyed than curious.

“It’s just a journal,” Shane answered easily, and pocketed the small leather book and pencil with his free hand. He looked out onto the road, over the man’s shoulder, watching as the hills rolled out behind them.

It was almost winter now, the leaves had long since fallen from the trees, and he could start to see his own breath in the mornings. The last thing he needed was to sit in a cold jail cell all winter. He was getting too old for that shit.

He needed to think- and maybe he _could,_ if this shitty old wagon would stop creaking so goddamn loud.

The wagon jerked and swayed and the man cursed again, his bitten skin turning red and raised, “Stupid goddamn _fucking_ chains--!”

“You’ve got one _dirty_ mouth,” Shane mused, irritated, “I’ve heard you swear more than I’ve swore in my entire life, and I don’t even know your _name_.”

The man sagged back against the hard wooden seat, defeated. “I shouldn't even _be_ here.”

“So what, you’re saying they got you confused with the _other_ guy running out the store with fistfuls of money?”

“I mean I shouldn’t have got _caught,_ ” the man spat, “and now I’ll be hanged next to some… some strange, outlaw lowlife.”

Shane listened to the hoofbeats and the creaking of the wagon’s wooden wheels.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

The man paused and looked away, like he was thinking about lying. He released his breath with a resigned sigh. “It’s Ryan.” he said finally, “Ryan Bergara.”

“Shane Madej,” he said, smiling, “Now at least we ain’t strangers.”

The younger man _, Ryan,_ smirked mirthlessly, adjusting his wrist in his shackle. They both fell back in to silence, save for muffled hoofbeats on packed earth and the groan of the wood around them.

Shane’s eyes wandered over his new friend for a minute. He had a head of dishevelled black hair and an unshaven face, and a pair of deep-set eyes so dark it was hard to discern the pupils. Handcuffed together like this, Shane could see the clear difference in their skin tones- his own hands were pale and slender, and Ryan’s were a warm brown, calloused and suntanned. Not much used to the cold, either, judging by the raised bumps on his bare arms. God damn, those _arms._

Judging by the slight accent and tanned skin, he was probably from the other side of the Rio Grande, if he had to hazard a guess. Shane made a mental note to ask him how he ended up all the way out in Blackreach, New Mexico. If he ever got the chance.

Ryan turned in his seat, surprising Shane with the intensity of his glare, “ _What_ are you staring at, cowpoke?”

“Who, me? Nothin’.” Shane answered defensively, then gestured over Ryan’s shoulder, “Just noticed the people walking past. We must be close to Blackreach now.”

Ryan turned to look over his shoulder and groaned. A couple had stopped to stand by the side of the road as the horses pulled the wagon past. The lady strained to see inside, whispering eagerly to her husband. Ryan shifted in his seat, turned his face away from the bars, shrinking down on himself.

Shane’s heart panged a little. That look of utter shame. Like a child being reprimanded by his parents, or walking out the jail’s front door as the sheriff’s glare bored holes in to your back.

“Look... don’t worry.” Shane told him, “They don’t hang you for thievin’. Especially if it’s your first time doing it. You’re gonna be alright.”

Why was he so overcome with the need to make this guy feel better? They’d just met, and that wide-eyed look made his chest tight.

“How do you know it was my first time?” Ryan demanded, almost defensive.

“You’ve got that look.”

“ _What_ look?”

“That ‘ _oh god, what’s my momma gonna think’_ look.”

“And you’re not concerned at all.” Ryan responded, unamused, “You look like you may as well be sitting in a park bench on a summer’s day.”

“Yeah, well,” Shane shrugged, a smug little smile on his face, “Not my first time.”

Shane cast a look over his shoulder at the lawman absently humming a tune in the driver’s seat, then down at the small metal hook that secured their chain to the bench. He gave Ryan a little nudge with his elbow.

“Look,” he said, quietly, “The screws are a bit loose. I think we could pry it off.”

“What? You wanna _escape_?” Ryan hissed, throwing a glance out the front to the oblivious driver. “Are you crazy? They’ll catch up to us, we’ll never make it.”

“You wanna risk jail?” Shane returned.

“But, you said they won’t hang me or anything, it’s my first charge!”

“Yeah, it’s _your_ first charge.” Shane said, “Sure as hell ain’t mine. These guys have no idea who they’ve caught. But if we get there, and that sheriff sees my face, learns my name…”

Ryan stared, biting down on whatever protest was about to spill out of his mouth. “Who _are_ you?” He demanded. “What did you _do_?”

“Doesn’t _matter_ .” Shane snapped, “If I had a choice, I’d kick down that door and be on my merry way, but seeing as we’re chained together, that’s not an option. So, you can either help me with this hook and come along _with_ me, or I’ll cut your hand off and go myself. It’s up to you.”

Ryan’s jaw clenched. Shane’s throat tightened when Ryan leaned in to whisper.

“Robbing that place… it wasn’t the only thing I’ve done,” he whispered, voice tight, “If they find out who I am, what I did, I’m fucked too. Shane… Do you actually have a plan?”

Shane nodded.

It took more strength than he had first thought. They pulled and pulled on their chain and the little screws hardy moved. The hook finally popped out of the bench with a dull crack. Shane stood, slowly, and approached the driver, gesturing his new friend to follow.

Shane raised a finger to his lips. Crouching directly behind the driver’s seat, behind the metal bars. With his free hand, Shane reached out. Ryan did the same, his hands almost touching the lawman’s holster. Shane’s fingers found the leather of the horse’s reins and at Ryan’s nod, he pulled as hard as possible.

Everything happened so fast. Driver yelled and tried to yank the reigns out of Shane’s grip, and the horses whinnied and bolted and the next thing Shane knew the world was toppling to its side and he landed in a heap of crashing metal and splintering wood.

He gasped heavily- the crash had knocked the wind right out of him. He felt a tugging on his arm and looked up to see Ryan on his knees, felt himself being pulled up and out and onto the soft cold grass. The roof of the wagon had busted in the crash- along with the rest of it. God, his head was swimming. But they were _out._

“Get up, _get up_!” Ryan pulled Shane to his feet. “We need to go!”

“Right- right!”

“You _bastards_!” the lawman screamed, his hand reaching in to his coat as he scrambled to his feet. His face fell, his hand landing on an empty holster. Ryan held up his little silver revolver and grinned.

Shane was on him in a second. He shoved the driver up against the wagon and _sorry sheriff, sorry mom_ , clocked him in the jaw so hard his lip split open in a spray of blood. He fell to his knees like a bag of rocks, but before Shane could land a kick to his ribcage he’d scrambled underneath the wagon and out the other side, pelting down the hill like a cat out of hell.

Shane made to run after him but Ryan yanked his arm back, “Shane, _enough_!”

“He’s getting away! Give me the gun!”

“Let him go!” Ryan said, throwing the gun to the ground, “This thing is fucking empty, and we’re in enough trouble as it is. We don’t need a dead lawman on top off all this. We need to run before he comes back with the cavalry.”

And with nothing else to lose, the pair of criminals turned tail and ran.  


 

**Ryan**

  


He’d given it some thought, and for the life of him he could not figure out Shane Madej’s angle.

Why was this stranger, that he met in a goddamn prisoner wagon of all things, being so… _nice_? When the lawman ran off he took the shackles’ keys with him. After they found a suitable place to hide in the forest of the hills beyond Blackreach, they spent at least forty five minutes bashing the iron chains with a heavy rock. As soon as they finally, finally broke them open, Ryan expected Shane was going to run off like some wild animal out of a snare trap.

But no, when Shane’s hands were free, he curled his fingers under Ryan’s restraint and pried it open, his hands so hot on his bare arm that it made his skin prickle. The metal snapped apart and fell to the forest floor with a soft thump. That’s when he offered to help Ryan get home.

Ryan dodged the question of where he lived. He couldn’t think about home right now, because if he thought about home he would think about the bastards he was running from, and if he thought about that he’d probably burst in to tears, and no one needed to see that. Especially not this man he’d just met.

He was barely keeping it together as it was. Even the kind looks from this stranger made his throat ache. The last thing he deserved was his kindness. It hurt more to think about the fact that this was all probably some kind of facade, and that the minute Ryan let his guard down the man would rob him blind, or turn him in, or worst of all, leave him here alone.

“You're rather jumpy, aren't you?” Shane had asked asked passed by an old farmhouse, “I can't tell if it's because of our escape or because of me.”

“It's been one hell of a day, cowpoke,” Ryan answered, bemused, “and I'm told I'm jumpy at the best of times.”

They’d been walking for a while at that point and it was starting to get dark. Shane noticed how Ryan hugged his arms against the cold, and after a few minutes of walking, told him to wait by the road. Ryan watched in confusion as Shane hopped the fence and disappeared behind the farmer’s shed. He appeared again a minute later with a thick navy coat.

“Saw this on their clothes line,” Shane told him, handing it over, “Don’t look at me like that- we beat up a police officer this morning, this is nothing.”

Ryan paused with his lips parted, slightly stunned, and took the coat in his hands, feeling the rough surface of the fabric with his thumb.

“Good point.” he  finally said, and threw the coat on over his shoulders. He held the fur trim collar up to his freezing cheeks. “...Thanks, Shane.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They set up camp at the top of a hill, far out enough from Blackreach that it put them both at ease. By the time they started a campfire the sun was low to the ground. Presently Ryan leaned against the wooden wheel of an old abandoned trailer, arms crossed, watching Shane warm his hands over their campfire.

He _had_ to have an angle. He had to have _something._

 _Is it entirely out of the realm of possibility,_ a small voice said as Ryan watched the man pull that leather notebook out of his coat, _that this man might just be a good person?_

 _Yeah, right._ Ryan thought, absently biting the skin of his thumb, _This is the West. No one is just a good and honest person, and anyone who’s claimed to be was trying to sell me something._

A blast of cold winter wind whipped through Ryan’s back so suddenly that it made him cry out in a gasp. Embers sputtered from the campfire, the dark logs turned bright red and bare for a split second before the wind passed them over and fire could cling to them again. Only when he looked over at Shane did he realize that he’d stopped writing, and was looking right at him. Ryan’s cheeks burned.

“You alright?” Shane asked.

“S’freezing, that’s all,” Ryan mumbled, pulling the collar of his coat up over the back of his neck, “The snow’s gonna be coming soon.”

Shane nodded, absently turning the page of his book to continue his scribbling, “You’re right, it shouldn’t be long now. You can feel the bite of it in the wind. What starts as a small snowfall in New Mexico may have you snowed out in the afternoon. That’s why it’s important that you find a way to get home.”

 _Get home_. Fat fucking chance. His throat ached again.

“...Sorry. About earlier.” Ryan said quietly.

“Sorry for what?”

“For calling you a lowlife.” Ryan said, eyes downcast, “I was wrong. You've been so helpful to me, and… ugh, I don't know how else to say it. I’m just sorry.”

“Oh…” Shane responded, then gave a warm smile, “Well, you were probably right about that Ryan, but thanks for the apology.”

His heart eased a little. He watched as Shane put his pencil to the paper, his words illuminated by the light of the fire.

“What’s that book you’re always writing in, anyway?” He asked.

“Told you, it’s a journal.”

“I’ve seen you draw in it too, though.” Ryan pressed, scooching over to sit closer to Shane,  “Can I see?”

“Nope.” Shane answered, holding the pages to his chest before Ryan could lean over his shoulder.

“Why not?” Ryan asked, disappointed.

“I don’t ask to rifle through your coat, don't ask to look at my journal.”

Ryan grinned. “Ooh, you’ve got some dirty stuff in there haven’t you?”

 _“Private_ stuff,” Shane answered, amused, “Not that you’ll ever read it.”

Ryan huffed a laugh, and didn’t ask again. In the low light Ryan could see the grass flatten and move as the wind rolled across the hill towards them, and he huddled deeper in to his coat as it passed them over, cutting through him and across his red cheeks like freezing little razor blades. God damn it, he loved New Mexico, but he would never get used to it’s dreadful winters.

His lips parted to say something else, but Shane had suddenly cocked his head to the side as if he had heard something. Alarmed, Ryan raised his head.

Hoofbeats, distant but unmistakable. Shane looked over his shoulder and Ryan turned his head to follow his gaze, his face cooling from the heat of the campfire to see in to the dark. Two lantern lights swayed below, way off in the forest. Ryan stiffened.

“Who is that?” Ryan asked in a hushed voice. “Is it the law?”

“Don’t think so.” Shane responded, voice quiet, “No, it’s impossible. We weren’t followed. Look, you see them?”

Ryan peered closer, and in the lantern light he could make out a man in a dark coat. What if it was… “Oh, _shit_.”

“You recognise them, Ryan?”

Ryan didn’t answer, eyes frantically scanning the trees, squinting against the darkness. The lanterns were getting closer, and the hoofbeats were getting louder. Under the crackle of the fire he could hear the riders’ voices. When he finally tore his eyes away he saw that Shane’s lips were pressed in to a thin line, and it made him shrink away like some bad dog.

“Thought you weren’t gonna be any trouble for me,” Shane pressed, voice sharp.

“I’m not, Shane, I swear,” Ryan insisted in a hushed voice, looking back down the hill, “But… Look, I can explain later. I can’t risk them, them bein’ who I _think_ they are. I need to hide. Please.”

“Oh, for the love of…” Shane’s protest died with a defeated sigh, “Alright, alright, I’ll cover for you. Just stop... _staring_ at me with them big ol’ eyes, like some goddamn lost puppy. Go hide in the trailer under the tarp, and don’t you make a goddamn sound. And stop lookin’ at me like that, I mean it.”

“Thank you Shane, _thank you_.”

No sooner had Ryan disappeared under the trailers moth-eaten tarp did the two riders appear over the hill. He shuffled around on his elbows and peaked out through a small gap in the fabric.The tightness in his chest eased a little- they weren’t anybody Ryan recognised. Not that that meant he was safe.

“Howdy, fellas,” Shane greeted warmly.The two men exchanged a glance, communicating something Ryan couldn’t quite catch.

“Howdy, mister,” the leader replied. He had dirty brown hair down to his neck and an unshaven face severely in need of a wash. “‘Scuse us, we don’t mean to interrupt your dinner. We saw the smoke from your campfire. Thought you might be somebody else.”

The quiet one behind him had a mop of blond hair sticking out from under his wide-brimmed hat. He hadn’t even looked at Shane since he entered their little camp. Ryan watched with held breath as is eyes flickered everywhere, taking everything in-- The ground, the tent, the trailer. Ryan’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Brown Hair gave a gentle kick to his horses sides, approaching the ground Shane sat on.

Something glinted against his side- he had a gun under that dirty brown coat. That didn’t mean anything, everyone and their grandmother had guns in a place like this. Everyone except for Ryan and Shane, of _-fucking_ -course.

“Sorry, fellas,” Shane was saying, pushing himself to his feet, “Just me out here. I got some stew cookin’ in that pot if you’re hungry, though. Probably won’t be enough for the three of us, but I always make too much when I cook by myself. It’d be a shame to waste it.”

“Nah, we’re fine, thank you sir,” Brown Hair said dismissively, “You ain’t who we’re lookin’ for, but maybe you’ve seen him.”

Shane shrugged, “Maybe. I’ve seen a lot of people today. _Hey,_ boy!”

Both Blondie _and_ Ryan jumped at the abrupt snap in Shane’s voice. “ _What?_ ”

“You stop eyein’ up my camp like that, or I’ll think you’re plannin’ to rob me.”

“Sorry, mister,” he muttered, fidgeting with his horse’s reins.

“Excuse my nephew,” Brown Hair said quickly, “He meant no offense. Teenagers, you know, Got no manners these days. Don’t wanna take up any more of your time now mister, so lemme just cut to the chase. We made a little deal with a business partner a few months ago. We’ve been chasin’ him for our money back but last we heard he skipped town.”

 _Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck._ So it _was_ them after all. His eyes never left Shane, desperately searching for some kind of reaction. But he had no tells. He only shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he coolly listened to the clean little summary of Ryan’s last few months of Hell.

“You seen him?” Brown Hair continued, “He’s a young fella, about twenty five, black hair. Owns a ranch a few miles out from Blackreach.”

“He got a name?” asked Shane, voice completely unreadable.

“Ryan Bergara.”

Ryan flinched. Jesus, he wished he could see Shane’s face.

“Sorry, haven’t seen him,” Shane said, “You should go down to that town over the hill and try your luck there, he’s probably at one of the inns down there at this time of night.”

“In Blackreach?” Brown Hair frowned, “We’ve looked all over, but… perhaps he’s come back.”

Shane shrugged, “Sorry I couldn’t be of any more help fellas. Now I gotta get some sleep, so if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Right…” Brown Hair responded, “ Well, sorry to bother you pardner. You have a good night now. Cameron, come on.”

Ryan ducked back down into the darkness of the wooden trailer, listening to the sound of the horses hoofbeats lessen and disappear in total silence.

Shane’s voice. “They’re gone now.”

Ryan climbed out silently, threw the tarp off and stood to his feet.

“So,” Shane said, eyes level with Ryan’s and his face as blank as stone, “Guess that explains why you robbed that store. And why you’ve been so avoidant about going home.”

He wanted to say something. To defend himself, to tell him the whole story. But as soon as he opened his mouth all that came out was a sob.

Through his tears he told Shane everything. A few months ago his horses were getting sick, dying one by one. He needed medicine, he needed money, and a loan shark can smell that kind of desperation from miles away.

“You borrowed money from a _gang_ ?” Shane echoed incredulously. "A gang from _Blackreach_?"

“I was desperate, Shane!”

With the money he borrowed he could help his animals. But everything fell apart- members of the gang threatened him, stopping him every time he went to Blackreach.  Eventually he couldn’t afford to pay his farmhands.

“I did _not_ skip town on them.” Ryan snarled, scrubbing the tears from his face with his sleeve, “When I couldn’t pay them back at their deadline,  they chased me out of my home. They burned down my barn, Shane. They dragged me out of my house that night and burned it right in front of me.”

Shane listened in stony silence.

“I couldn’t even check if any of my horses were hurt. And now I know they’re in my house, eating my food and doing as they please and it makes me sick to my fucking stomach. That’s why I robbed the place, _okay_? I just wanted to pay them off and get my life back. I’m not a bad person. I was--!”

“ _Ryan._ ”

And then Shane’s hands were on his shoulders, warm and solid and _there._ Ryan stared up at him, lips slightly parting. Shane’s eyes glinted in the firelight.

“We’re gonna get your home back.”

“Oh…” Ryan responded breathlessly, “I, I appreciate what you’re saying, Shane…. You’ve been so helpful and kind to me, but there’s no way I can ask you to pay them back. It’s way too much to ask, and they--”

“Now hang on. Who said anything about _paying_ those bastards?”

“What? What’re you getting at?”

“I said we’re gonna get you’re home back,” Shane said, “even if we gotta shoot every last one of ‘em.”

_Sorry, sheriff._

_Sorry, mom._

_Looks like I have one more job to do._

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a lot of fun and has been taking so much effort. I'd really appreciate your thoughts!


End file.
